A Study in Black
by Violonaire
Summary: A machinist is found strangled at the Royal Opera House. Is this a suicide, as Stamford claims? Or something far more complicated and exciting as Sherlock Holmes hopes? And here is Watson involved in all of this, for a simple matter of housing. Victorian crossover between Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes (A Study in Scarlet) and Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera
1. Mister Holmes

A/N: As crossover has such a bad advertizing here... I'm not too sure in which category to put this story. I don't believe it's truely the Phantom of the Opera or even a crossover as, in fact, it's just part of a case and that, maybe in the future, I planned to use the same characters ( Sherlock Holmes, Jane Watson, ect.) in another Sherlock story. But I do strongly hesitate between Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes. I prefer the BBC Sherlock ( a bit younger and a bit less human and sociable and more sardonic ) than Doyle's Holmes and Mrs. Hudson (more funnier) and, in the same time, prefer much more the Victorian Era. I've already but a lot more little references to ''A study in Scarlet'' already. As I re-read myself and as I read what is normally done in both fandom (Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes) this story clash a lot is what is expected from the Sherlock fandom even if I use some BBC characters version. I received more feedback from Sherlock Holmes fans than Sherlock. If you have any concern or really feel this story should return back in the Sherlock Holmes section, please, feel free to PM me.

* I'm not allowed to post lyrics here, but I did write this story while listening to the song **Motel** from the Moriarty band.

 _Where the author of this singular work tells us  
_ _the first encounter they had with Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

London,

March 4th 1881.

The tray slipped from my hands, and its contents spread over the floor, in a mess of shattered glass, dirty scalpels and all sorts of fluids in the middle of the room. I felt the cold sweat sink down my neck. I could not breathe, as if I had been locked again in this grave, with that pistol pointed at my cheek. A tear ran down my face. I felt it walk along the hideous blisters of the scar that skirted my cheekbone. I tried to calm down. I was in London, far, very far from it. "The patients' frightened faces surrounded me, and Chief Nurse Hayes' murderous look could have crucified me on the spot. I leaned over, without a word, to pick up the shattered glass when the thick figure of Dr. Stamford, surely alerted by the noise, appeared behind me. I felt his chubby hand gently touching my shoulder.

''Watson.'' Stamford said. ''May I have a word with you, please.''

Mortified with shame, I smoothed my dress, trying to ignore the reddish splashes on my apron, replaced my headdress on my tousled head, and lowered my gaze to obediently follow the doctor through the St. Batholomew's corridors. When he came to his office, he asked me to sit on the bench he reserved for his patients, and in front of me, with that conciliatory smile which was generally reserved for hysterical patients.

'' Jane Harriet Watson '' He smiled as if my name had been a nursery rhyme or an exotic bird name. I was choking and the small room, without any window, made me feel uneasy.

"How long have you been with us, Miss Watson?"

My hands clenched on my apron and I tried to smile as best I could.

"A little less than a month, sir." I replied.

I arrived in London in the middle of January aboard the SS Britannic with nine shillings and six pence on me. Without roof, work or family, with a red scar like blood, hardly healed, on the left cheek, I lived here and there in these pensions, which were asking you for three pence at night, to sleep there, crowded with the others, in these filthy common rooms which were teeming with lice. Forging identity papers and proper references, in the trembling light of a candle, amidst the groans and insults of other boarders had been a feat. And finding that nursing job at the prestigious Barts had been a blessing. The daily tasks were very simple, compared to what I knew ... Too simple, maybe ... much too simple ... Obsessively cleaning oil lamps, dragging a seal of coal with us and cleaning the all the rooms from early the morning to dusk? Really? And you needed references for that? Oh! If they knew ... But I could not afford to lose this job ...

''One month, Miss Watson.'' The doctor smiled at me. ''And you have proved to us that, despite your appearance, if I dare say so, you were an exemplary nurse. We were afraid of the effect of your ... face on our patients but they are not too inconvenienced. Always on time, always ready to help for an extra shift, always care for the sufferers. Doctor Murray has only kind words for you. A real little soldier! So ... I'd like to know ... what happened just now, Miss Watson?''

I cleared my throat and smiled more beautifully, trying to hide the black and brownish stains on my uniform.

''N… Nothing, really, doctor, it's just-''

He stopped me with a wave with his hand, frowned and looked at me with an anxious glance over his round golden glasses.

"I do not need to be a soothsayer, Miss Watson, to see that you're terribly tired and I'm worried." I reread your application and ... indeed, you have excellent references in America. However, someone forgot to write down your current address. Where do you live at this moment, Miss Watson?''

I felt the blood pouring down my face in spite of myself and could not answer. How could I admit that I lived in the lowlands of London without losing my place? Doctor Stamford took off his glasses, sighing to look at me with a distressed look, then winked at me with a good-natured look.

"Well…'' He sighted "That will be our little secret, Miss Watson. You seem like a brave girl who just needs a good start! You know, you're the second person to talk to me about housing issues today!''

I bit my lip, caught doubt by throwing a nervous look towards the closed door.

''The second one?'' I asked. ''Who's the first?''

"I have this patient, Mrs. Hudson, a very respectable lady, I assure you, who desperately seeks a decent person to occupy the second room of her boarding-house." I am sure she would be delighted to have you as a tenant. And ... and I'm sure you'll both agree with a very affordable rent; Mrs. Hudson can wait a little, until you get your first wages. What do you say about that, Miss Watson?''

I stood there for a moment, blinking like an idiot. I would have given everything, right now, for a small and clean room where I could sleep on my own. I muttered a few words of thanks and asked, in a breath.

"So… Why is this Mrs. Hudson so desperate to find a tenant if she offer a affordable and decent room, Doctor?"

Stamford's smile faded away and he took off his glasses to wipe out an imaginary spot. He put them back on his nose and gave me a look of embarrassment and a heavy sigh of understatements.

''Well ... you see ...'' He scratched his big hairless cheek and gave me an embarrassed smile.

''Your future flatmate is ... a little eccentric, that's all. Do not worry. He's a decent gentleman and Mrs Hudson would not allow any misbehaviours. You just have to ... arm yourself with a bit of patience.''

"And who better than a nurse like you to radiate patience?" His smile widened ''Listen ... this gentleman must be at the very moment at the morgue, here, just below. He's a scientist, sort of, and he's a regular at the Barts, if I may say so. Why not go and visit him right away, huh? You will decide whether cohabitation is possible. I would not want to disappoint poor Mrs. Hudson again.''

I stood straight and smiled politely at Stamford. How many poor wretches had he innocently referred to Mrs. Hudson? How many of them withdrew after meeting this infamous gentleman? My imagination left me with scenario's meanders that could only apply to the Marquis de Sade. Yet, out of despair, I followed Dr. Stamford on the endless stairs of St. Bartholomew's and in the dark, damp corridors leading to the morgue. I had to stop at a moment, a prey to dizziness. My heart was loudly pounding in my chest and had the impression that the stone walls were closing up on us and that I would be left forever in these depths. My face covered with sweat, I leaned against the stone to catch my breath, under the alarmed glance of the doctor. I heard what seemed to be shots or whips in the distance, but it must have been my imagination. I shook my head and waved to the doctor to continue to the morgue and did my best to regain my composure. The doctor stepped towards me, surely filled with compassion, but I made him an explicit sign that he must keep his distance. We continued our journey, in a awkward silence.

* * *

'' _Doux Jésus!_ ''

I let go a French curse without even noticing it, and the man in front of us stopped his motion, his whip in the air ready to fall back on the naked corpse in front of him.

The individual was about thirty years old. His steel-blue eyes peered at me for a brief moment before one of his thin, ink-stained hands swept a long curly wisp of brown hair on his forehead. He gave us a tight smile, accentuating his prominent cheekbones, as if the expression itself had been the skillful mimicry of an ape.

''Montreal. Or maybe Quebec city? No really. Montreal, it's obvious.''

Stamford looked at me sideways, shrugged and gave me a sad look and pointed the man a polite smile.

"Miss Watson, may I introduce you to Mr. Holmes?" Mister Holmes, this is Miss Watson, one of our new nurses.

I stepped back, ready to leave. How could this man know? How? I did my best to contain the panic that crept into my chest. I looked around. I needed that room. The powerful smell of ethanol and the hazardous content of the jars all around us did not frighten me, far from it; I knew what each of them contained, I stroked the scalpels of dissection with my finger. Here, I was in known territory. Human anatomy no longer had any secrets for me. How many times had I accompanied my father in his experiments? I could almost feel the sweet smell of his pipe again. I almost forgot, for a few minutes, that I was trapped underground with two strangers. I attempted as best I could to regain my spirits. Then my gaze was directed towards the corpse that I examined from the corner of my eye. It was not pretty. But Stamford seemed not to have realized anything, absolutely nothing. He pointed at the corpulent mass in front of us.

''Still this experience on bruises, Holmes? Poor devil! It's the machinist we took off from his rope at the Royal Opera House last night, did not we? Joseph Beckett? Sad story. To commit suicide like that ... I see, by his shoulder that your experience is conclusive and-''

Mr. Holmes looked up at the ceiling, gave an exasperated sigh, and looked at me.

''Watson?''

I jumped and turned to the two men, alarmed.

''It's been the third time I'm calling you.'' Holmes said, in a cold tone.''Does violin bother you?''

I gave him a puzzled glance and shook my head.

"And you do not know how to sing, I presume?"

I cast a another glance at Dr. Stamford, who merely grimaced with an overwhelmed gesture. I shook my head again, wary. Holmes paced in the small room, speaking out loud, as though we were not there.

''Of course she does not know how to sing!'' He seemed almost angry, now. ''With that scar, she wouldn't even make it to the chorus! We will find something else Watson. You'll do.''

He sighed again, visibly bothered and gesticulated in the direction of the deceased.

''Your diagnosis, Doctor Watson.''

I opened my mouth, more and more puzzled, but Stamford, already quite red with that indignation that was expected from a decent gentleman protecting a lady, got ahead of me.

''Holmes! But what are you thinking? She's a nurse! A nurse! Let this poor girl alone, will you? Look, she's all pale now! Poor child!''

Holmes gave a last savage blow to the corpse and threw the whip at me. I grab it instinctively and the young man made another cold grin in my direction.

"Stamford, with all the respect I owe you, you are quite boring." He sighted. ''I hear Mrs. Hudson complaining at breakfast of the headaches caused by the concern of not being able to rent this room, for the umpteenth time, and here you are, soon after lunch, with this young… person freshly disembarked from the SS Britannic seeking for a decent lodging. You are counting on her to be grateful to hide the poverty of her condition to keep her place and the fact that her colleagues avoid her because of her face and her false references – Don't worry Stamford, they didn't warned her about your wandering hands yet – so that she _has_ to accept that sketchy invitation of yours for next Saturday evening, after Norman Neruda concert. Boring. '' He glanced back at me. ''Watson please, your diagnosis, we don't have much time''

I felt anger and shame rise to my cheeks and glanced scandalously at Dr. Stamford, my hand gripped on the whip, who was wiping his forehead and seemed to want to burry his immense body mass underground. Already he was walking a few steps to the door, ready to flee. I boiled with rage at having been fooled by these two amateurs. I looked at the two men in turn with a murderous look and gave a mean grin at Stamford, with my head raised towards the corpse and grabbed a magnifying glass on the table next to me. If my estimates were correct, the corpse had to weigh at least 250 pounds. It belonged to a man of about forty years who seemed to have seen a lot of things in his life. He was tall, robust, hairy and stout. An alcoholic loner, probably, looking at the length of his nails. But even Stamford could have guessed it by himself. Mr. Holmes's whip had left his mark on the corpse but not as much as he would have liked. I bent closer above the shoulder and its blackened skin to examine it attentively, then glanced at the corpse's bluish lips. Delicately, I opened it's mouth. The pestilential smell of the orifice assailed me for a moment and I frowned. The tongue was black. The rope marks on his neck had scarcely broken the flesh. I slipped two fingers under Beckett's neck to examine the vertebrae. The man's neck was intact.

I breathed a sigh and took a cloth to clean my hands. Should I be satisfied with myself or completely terrified? I took the most solemn tone I could. Didn't I already lost my job and, by the same token, decent housing, anyway?

"Your experience is a failure, Mr. Holmes. Corpses have no blood flow and so ... no more bruises. And you know it. Is there any medical purpose for all this beside frightening every Mrs. Hudson tennants? The necrosis area you see there, on the shoulder, is…a scorpion bite. And marks on the neck... probably an failed attempt to make it look like a suicide and restrict the dying in his long agony. It takes a professional to hang properly a man of this size. This Beckett could not have done it alone without breaking his neck. This man... this man has been murdered, Mister Holmes.

I raised my head to Holmes to find him, hands clasped under his chin, meditating on my scar with an enigmatic smile. I heard the heavy iron door open and close behind us. Stamford was running away.

''Good answer, Watson. We'll get along just fine. 7 pm, tomorrow evening.''

He took his top hat on a stool and pulled on his coat with a dramatic gesture before I could even protest.

''Oh! And the address is 221b Baker Street. My name is Sherlock Holmes. You can take the room upstairs. See you tomorrow, Watson.''

And he left the room, just like that. Leaving me completely alone with Beckett's corpse, in the dark corridors of the St-Bartholomew's morgue.


	2. The Science of the Deduction

Where we discuss a bit about hairs issue in the Victorian Era  
And where we learn much more about Mister Holmes strange frequentations and occupations

* * *

 **THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION**

The title made me smile again. With an amused grin, I threw a penny at the newsboy and stopped at the corner of Marybole to read the article. This chronicle was published every week in the _Daily Telegraph_. It was completely wacky, to say the least. It was about a London famous crime solved by a series of deductions, all more frivolous than the others, involving the way the culprit dressed, styled his or her hairs or walked. Since my arrival in London, I've been enjoying it a lot. I did not know what I liked more between these conclusions drawn by all those silly little things or the too pompous and all so serious tone and word choices the chronicler used. It was a good laugh assured every week.

I needed it. The last evening at the hospital had been tough. I hated this job, but I needed to eat. Oh, certainly ... Stamford had not dared to say anything about our little meeting with Holmes at the morgue, of course, and I had gone safely out of the underground, this time. I owed so much to this surgeon who had guided me to the light of day. I thanked Hooper abundantly and kept myself from crying when I saw the light of the day, upstairs.

One week. One week since I moved to 221B Baker Street. The beakers that littered the dining table did not intimidate me in the least and the eerie bachelor's decor, with the human skull forgetten on a coffee table neither. The library was packed with chemistry books and biographies of murderers all more sordid than the others. I devoured them. I had already stolen one or two books, which I kept at my bedside. It changed me from the monotony of my daily tasks.

I had seen my roommate only once, in the corner of the eye. He was going up the main staircase and I was getting down. End of the story. I went out very early to go to work and came home very late. And he sometimes got up late and came back even later and by then, I was already in bed. This Sherlock Holmes was absolutely right. If everything went on like that, we would get along _just fine_.

There was only Mrs. Hudson who was causing me concern. Oh! She was very lovely, no doubt. But this woman had lost her mind somehow and I was sure she was planning on drowning us slowly by making us tea.

She had gone up to see me the day before, as I was getting ready for the night. She had kindly inquired about my comfort. Then she sat on the bed and invited me to sat beside her in a maternal gesture. She smiled at me and wrapped me in her tender and slightly distressed look, pointing her face in a vague gesture. ''I'm not too sure about that, my dear.''

I cleared my throat and bit my lip. Was she saying she did not want to be inconvenienced by the sight of my scar? I imagined myself returning to one of those creepy lodgings in Whitechapel. I looked desperately into the small, cozy room, under the roof. I loved my solitude. I looked at her imploringly. She only smiled, patting my hand. ''I use yellow arsenic myself, you know.'' She said. ''It will remove all these little imperfections, you will see. ''

I frowned and gently lifted my hand, livid, and gave her a puzzled smile. ''Oh ... Mrs. Hudson ... Of course but ... Yellow arsenic is such a toxic product and ... it's not very wise to put it on a recent scar-''

It was in her turn to look at me with a perplexed and somewhat doubtful air, and jumped up. ''Of course not!'' She yelled, offended. ''I was talking about those little ugly hairs that covers the top of your upper lip, dear.''

I had scarcely time to open my mouth and touch the thin and dark hairs on my upper lip, horrified and disoriented, that Mrs. Hudson already had her hand on the door handle and smiled warmly at me. I coughed, red with shame and a small voice, asked her: ''Your yellow arsenic… '' I said. ''Can I borrow you some?''

"Of course not!'' She frowned. ''I am your landlady. Not your apothecary!''

And she went out of the room.

* * *

It was a little over midnight when I turned the corner of Allsop Rd to the corner of Baker Street, A few minutes later and I was in front of my new home. I folded the newspaper and tucked it under my arm and glanced over to the second floor window. The light in Holmes' room was on. I grumbled and pulled out the little brownish bottle I had in my jacket pocket to examine it. Yellow arsenic. I had stolen this from the hospital; It surely would not be missed to anyone. I was about to turn the handle when the door in front of me opened with a crash. I lost my balance and my precious bottle shattered on the street's pavement. I stood for a moment staring at the intruder, dazed. A blond young man, barely out of puberty, wearing a French Navy uniform pointed at me with a trembling and accusing finger, tears flowing down his burning cheeks.

"You're his fiancée, aren't you?" He said, almost yelling at me. ''Tell him I'm not jealous! I'm not _jealous_! It's more than that. Much more than that! It's a matter of life or death, don't you understand?''

What was he doing there in the middle of the night, weeping, talking to me so vaguely of jealousy, with his beautiful uniform? Oh ... I started to get my idea. I stepped back and I was about to tell the intruder that I was not Holmes' fiancée and that they could perfectly deal alone with their little affair without me. The lanterns of a black Allsop Rd coupé dazzled me and the teenager stepped back into the street, staring at the black horses of the cab that were slowing down in front of us and gave me a last imploring look.

" Oh my god…" He said. "He ... he found me ... Tell Holmes he must listen to me! Tell him-''

But already, the young man disappeared, running, in the shadows of the street. As the gloomy cab passed in front of me and slowly took the road in his direction, I felt a chill run across my spine.

Tired, I reached the second floor; the light in Holmes's room was out. I shrugged. I had many other worries and I got up early the next day. A tepid teapot waited on the table, as usual. A doctor's bag was sitting next to it. I took a quick look round and pulled out the small flask that I hid under my coat. I poured a large rasp of its contents into the cup and filled the rest with tea. I almost spit out the liquid. But what Mrs. Hudson was thinking to put so much sugar there? I looked at the cup and thought of the squandered gin. I sighed and took it in one go.

* * *

An amused pout danced again on his lips and in his big dark exalted eyes; the same childish grin that I loved so much and who consoled me thousands and thousands of times. But this smile he now made was no longer of any comfort. Oh no. He stood between the grave entrance and me, staring at me with a shrill madness. Outside, the sandstorm was raging and I knew that no one would come to help me. I was betrayed by the one I loved the most. I wanted to scream and beg him to stop everything. I wanted to promise him not to tell anyone. But my body was heavy, so heavy and refused to move. I saw the boy I loved so much transformed before my eyes into a bloodthirsty monster. He slowly lifted the old pistol towards me and slowly put his finger on the trigger. I saw him say something but the sound of the wind rushing into the depths was so strong that I did not hear anything. I was falling and falling again. And the pain exploded behind my head.

I got up and put my hand behind my neck, glancing at the night table on which I had banged, falling off the bed. All my muscles were heavy and numb, my right shoulder was stiff again, my right leg was sore, my head ached and I was nauseous. I looked desperately at the window. The sunlight illuminated the wall in front of my bed through the dusty windows of the room. The mirror, hanging on the door, made me see the reflection of a poor girl with bags under her eyes, her hair twinkling in disorder and pale as a ghost. On my livid skin, the scar that scratched my cheek seemed to radiate anger. I opened a drawer of my dresser and plunged my hand through the petticoats that I tossed there. Mrs. Hudson gave me the impression that she was far too prudish to go into my underwear. Through the lace I felt the butt of metal, cold as death. My father's pistol. It reassured me.

It must have been nine o'clock. I was late for work but it was the last of my worries, at the moment.

I found Holmes lying on the sofa, his eyes closed in a meditative position, his watch in his hands. On the table, breakfast had been served and the Daily Telegraph, which I had brought the day before, was placed on a small table near the sofa. Without making a noise, limping on my bad leg, I sat down in the old armchair opposite him. I noticed that the newspaper was open on this famous chronicle which I adored and that it had been surrounded in red pencil. I was about to scrape my throat when my roommate's deep and annoyed voice filled the room.

"I have already sent a message to Dr. Stamford and Miss Hayes." He said. ''I told them you had nausea, muscle aches, headaches and you were very tired. I told them about those funny red marks on your face, I think too. They do not expect you for a long time. In fact, I think they're not expecting you at all.

I took a deep breath. Holmes had not changed his position. I rackled my throat again and fidgeted in the chair, uncomfortable.

'' Those are smallpox symptoms, Holmes. Why on earth have you told them I had smallpox?''

"Or barbituric acid mixed with alcohol...'' He answered. '' Mrs. Hudson husband was an alcoholic you see. A difficult case, really. Mrs. Hudson sometimes struggle with insomnia, because of her late husband, and Dr. Stamford has prescribed her barbituric acid to help her sleep. But about alcohol, Mrs. Hudson is inflexible. She probably slipped a word about that when you accepted the room. I therefore concluded that it was smallpox, since it couldn't be any alcohol involved with such a proper lady. I strongly recommend waiting a bit before you go to the Barts. You would cause a stir out there. If you care so much about cleaning the floors and dragging a seal of coal all day, I can always send an apologetic message about my perception of your condition and my second hypothesis on that matter.''

I remained silent for a moment and ask myself if I should not shoot him right away.

"What do you want from me, exactly, Mr. Holmes?" I replied.

I heard him sighing in boredom, still motionless on the sofa.

"But your company, of course." He said. ''For a week, maximum two. Two weeks is enough to recover from the smallpox, if you don't want the job anymore after that.''

I pinched my lips and felt the heat rise on my cheeks and the gall coming to my throat. I thought of the young man who had knocked me at the door. Pale as a girl with a down over the lip more discreet than mine. His totally insane remarks, spat between two set of tears, came back to my mind. Poor fool.

''Listen to me, Holmes.'' I spat. ''I'm not that kind of woman. I will not pretend to be your fiancée or your escort. Have you even take a look at me? It would not even be credible and people would still gossip about who you truely are. I do not care whom you see all alone in this apartment, I do not want to be involved in your such affairs. If you are not able to assume who you are and whom you love, in this mad society, I can't help you.''

He let out a cold and exasperate sigh.

"You know much more about women than I do.'' He replied. ''Marriage and conjugal affairs are not a subject upon which I'm drawn, Watson.''

It was my turn to raise an amused eyebrow. I had stung him.

"That's what I understood yesterday evening, indeed.'' I said. '' That the fair sex were not quite your department, as you say.''

Still motionless, I saw him frown and glance perplexed at me, then he resumed his meditative air and a smile appeared on the corner of his lips.

"You have made acquaintance with Monsieur Raoul de Chagny, I see." He said, sardonically. ''Interesting. I told the young lad the same thing as you. That if he were unable to go beyond social conventions, I could do nothing for him. That it was quite normal that the girl he was courting found another stable party if he could offer only but the ephemeral patronage of his family. After all, artists, even the most adulated of the moment, end up getting old and it is normal that a simple singer without fortune prefers someone older who will satisfy her security needs rather than a young nobleman who would never afford to marry her without losing his rank, reputation and fortune. I told him to let her go. That is was truely the best solution for everyone. But the poor fool did not want to understand. Too bad.

I remained speechless for a moment recalling the thread of events I had with that fop, the evening earlier. Holmes has raced so much his answer that I had not been able to grasp the whole story. I was sceptical. He was bluffing, I was certain of it. I sighed. "And it's to help you sort out the lonely hearts mail that you need me for two weeks?" I would rather go and clean the patients' excrements at the Barts, thank you.

"Do not be ridiculous, Watson.'' He replied. ''I'm a consultive detective and I need you on a case. I do not usually charge fees when Scotland Yard need my help, but I will make an exception for you to get paid as you should. In your place, I would enjoy the 14 minutes that we have left to start this breakfast that Mrs. Hudson has prepared you. You do not want to upset her. She would be able to starve us both.''

''You didn't answer my question. What exactly do you hope from me?''

''Your medical knowledge, of course. '' He replied. ''You beat both Drs Stamford and Murray, who are Oxford graduates. You traveled a lot in your youth with your father, who was a military doctor in the British army. You were the son he dreamed of having so he taught you everything he knew. You were even in Egypt and Afghanistan to help your father and you know America, because you were born in Montreal, of a French Canadian mother. You do speak french and also know the Middle East fairly well, which is quite convenient here. And as a bonus, you are very resourceful and seasoned. I do not see any better assistant for this case. You just need to work of that claustrophobia of yours and get rid of that alcohol dependence. I need you to be sober, this time.''

I got up, more mad and more intrigued than ever. I would have strangled him on the spot. I paced the room, stirring my aching neck twice to ease my anxiety. How did he know all that? But Holmes continued to meditate in his prayer-like pose, as if nothing had happened.

''Do not worry.'' He continued ''I do not care if you're not really that innocent nurse you claim to be. And I do not care if you came to London to take revenge on the man who killed your father. He deserves it. All I want is an effective assistant, for now. But I warn you doctor. It may be dangerous. You only have 3 minutes left. The day will be long and I need all your attention. In your place, I will take this toast to your handkerchief and put it in this bag, there, on the table. It's yours. You will find all the instruments needed for your profession.''

I stopped and stared at him and then I smiled wickedly, barking laughter, to hide my distress, avoiding to even notice what he just has said about me as if it didn't exist. I heard the door open and the outraged voice of Mrs. Hudson sounded down in the hall but I was too angry to even take notice. In an hour I would be far, far from here. I had enough. That mad landlady and her outrageous lodger would be the death of me, I knew it. But at the same time, I was so intrigued...

"Are you listening to yourself, Holmes?" 3 minutes? You sound like that unquenchable verbiage that is found in this _Science of Deduction_ published by the _Daily Telegraph_. If I were you, I would stop reading it for a week or two, to regain my spirits. Consultive detective, Poppycock! Bloody hell! You take yourself for Auguste Dupin.

"I do not need to read the Science of Deduction because I'm the one who writes this chronicle. And poor Dupin's abilities are far inferior to mine. He has good thinking skills but his detective skills are limited. A bad detective, really.

I was going to tell him that Dupin was only the fruit of Poe's imagination when he finally opened his eyes and stood up from a couch, adjusting his jacket and cufflinks and grin at me in an amused and childish way. I stepped back a step. He turned to the door and sighed heavily.

"Do not stay behind this door like a fool, Lestrade and come in."

The door opened on a gray-faced man who stared at Holmes as if he had been the incarnate devil. He pointed down, toward the vestibule, and looked at me with an air as astonished as mine. He looked at me helplessly before turning to my roommate. ''But how did you know it was me?''

Holmes rolled his eyes up and held out an evasive hand to our visitor, looking at the floor with a bored look.

"Here is Inspector Graham Lestrade of the Scotland Yard." Lestrade, this is Dr. Watson, my assistant.

The inspector removed his top hat and stared at me. Was it fear I saw in his dilated pupils? He shook his head vigorously.

\- Holmes, please ... This is not the place for a young lady ... You ... you will understand when you see it ... I ... I desperately need your help ... Gregson is not aware that I'm here. We found another body at the Royal Opera House. And this time, it's a murder, Holmes. You were right. There's a serial murderer on the loose.

* * *

A/N :I tried a little humour here in this tragedy. I promised, it's not something you'll see often from me. Of course, as you figured it out ''Jane'' in not John. Not at all. I try to be respectful of my own origins and always put a exiled french-canadian protagonist. After all, we were british citizens, back then ( and always sort are).

I'm not sure which category to choose, for this story. Crossover are well... really badly advertized here and I feel it's not quite a Phantom of the Opera story. It's more a Sherlock Holmes case, really, among others cases and possible sequels. I definitely use the BBC Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade version... but I prefer so much more the Victorian Era. So... I'm not sure between Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes. I really try to follow Study in Scarlet from Doyle and put some truely Sherlock Holmes references here. But please, gives me your comments.

Oh! While researching for other female Watson here, I came across this splendid, epic, beautifully written story. I devored the 37 chapters in a evening.

Search for : My dear Miss Watson

A delight. I promise.


	3. The Third Cellar

_Where we learn more about the talents of Mr. Holmes, his dear biographer  
_ _As well as London tastes in terms of opera._

* * *

The uneven pavement of the London streets revived even more my nausea. I had to put a handkerchief against my mouth and press it to my lips so as not to vomit everywhere. All the roads to the Royal Opera House were congested and this infernal transport seemed never to end. Holmes gave me a bored look and resumed his out loud criticism from the music chronicle of the Daily Telegraph.

"I told you to take that piece of bread in your handkerchief, Doctor." He said, ignoring my dismay.

I glared at him. I was in this cab, on the way to the Royal Opera House, with this individual who had deliberately intoxicated me. Or maybe not. I was still trying to convince myself that Mrs. Hudson had sat down at our table, with her tea full of sedatives complaining of something to her tenant, and that she had left the tea pot there. Mrs. Hudson loved to complain, a teapot in her hand and was quite whimsical for that sort of thing. But I could not quite believe it. What was I doing here? I did not know. Except that I was curious and that the notion of danger had awakened in me this tension and these butterflies that roamed my whole body. I felt at last alive.

I would have liked to take the paper out of his hands and confront him. A police inspector had just knocked at our door, a man had just lost his life, according to the same policeman and ... And Mr Holmes was reading Spriggs * report on Neruda's concert!

I lowered my handkerchief and looked again at my roommate.

"Should not you concentrate on what Inspector Lestrade has asked you to do instead of criticizing my diet and balk at Gaylord Spriggs?" I said. "A man is dead, Holmes. And I can not understand why the police is calling a man who have more interest in music than in human life.

''There is no energy to waste on a corpse that will remain in its place before arriving at the scene.'' He said, eyes still on his newspaper.

''Oh!" I replied. ''Unlike the Ricoletti case of your last column, you mean? This corpse found a few hours before and chained to the morgue that reappeared days later as a undead to kill his old enemy? A case that has never been resolved ... Except by you and your fabulous theories, of course. Don't you find your conclusions on this Masonic sect and all this staging with mirrors and superstitions a bit exagerated? I read this case, you know, and I prefer the twin theory issued by the Scotland Yard.''

''Twins?'' He almost spat the word with hate. ''It's never twins, Watson. Never. The very notion of twins in any criminal story is an act of incredible intellectual laziness and a most lamentable literary shortcut worthy of the Scotland Yard and Dupin. Stop wasting our time and ask me this question that burns your lips.''

He folded his paper and looked me casually in the eyes with an almost indulgent air. I bit my lip. He was right. Better sort this out right away and hear him unpack everything he knew about me before I found myself facing this corpse at the Royal Opera House.

''How did you know where I came from and about my references? How did you know I was in Afghanistan?''

''Your origins are easy enough to guess.'' He sighted. ''You speak French with a rare accent and your English, although flawless, is tinged with turns of subtle phrases that are only found in Montreal, a city where French and English settlers more or less cohabit together. Your mother tongue is French because you swear instinctively in this language. So your mother was probably a French Canadian. She died when you were very young and the rest of your education was done in English. Your complexion is slightly tanned, and you do not have the exact coquetry of a London lady, if I understood correctly Mrs Hudson complaints. You travelled quite easily, even for a woman, in the British colonies, so your surname, or at least the one that appeared on your passport, is a Britannic one.''

He glanced through the window with an impatient air. The carriage was no longer moving, and we were only half way. ''What a waste of time.'' He sighed again. ''We should have taken the Metropolitan, Watson. The station was just around the corner. But no, you refused, and you nearly justified Lestrade reluquance on your ability not to faint for the slightest foolishness. Let's go on, will you?''

He cracked the joints of his thin fingers and leaned closer to me.

''Given your thorough medical knowledge and the way you look at the instruments, I assume that your father was a doctor, even a surgeon. A doctor who travels a lot, so very likely, a military surgeon. Following the death of your mother, he decided to take you everywhere with him. If he had had a son worthy of him, he would have taught him everything. But no. Then he fell on you because you were gifted. You have travelled all the way to Egypt, as you are well aware of the effects of a scorpion's bite. By your tanned complexion and your rather abrupt manners, I deduce that you have accompanied your father in the army, as an assistant, in spite of your sex. Your father must surely was well enough respected to be allowed to have this sort of little whim, as to take his own daughter into a military campaign. Where has there been a recent war with the British Empire? In Afghanistan. And what better than a war to disguise a murder and hide a scandal or even create one? If your father had died like an ordinary soldier, with all the honours he deserved, you would not be in London alone, to hide yourself under a false name.

He took his pipe to stuff it with tobacco, with meticulous gestures. The smell invaded me with as much force as the memories attached to it. Holmes was right. All along the line. And he continued, at my own dismay.

"The man who killed your father was just as dear to you as your father was. Otherwise, a smart girl like you would not have fallen into his trap trying to help him prove your father's innocence innocence, despite everything that was pointing at him. He has isolated you in a dark place, probably underground, considering the sweat you had on the forehead and your jerky breathing, at the morgue. And he fired. The first bullet hit you at the right shoulder. We can seeit by how you move your right arm. The impact dragged you down as you tried to climb back to the surface, and you probably had injured your leg while falling. Oh! You were lucky, because the second bullet was targerting your forehead, between the two eyes. But you lost balance, due to the first bullet impact and fall down; the second bullet tored your cheek instead. Your head bumped and lost consciousness, so he thought you were dead. I do not know how long you stayed in this dark place, until you were rescued by the indigenous but it still haunts you. Enough for you to scream, while having nightmares, when you have a little too much drunk. In the intimate way in which you pronounce his name in your dreams, I deduce that it was your fiancé or your lover and I can understand why you would like revenge of this-''

''ENOUGH!''

I screamed in the carriage with all my strength. He stopped his gesture and stood motionless, piercing me with his steel blue eyes. I was trembling and I knew it. After a good breath, it was my turn to lean towards him with my jaw clenched. I succeeded to say to say it as slowly as I could, word by word so Holmes would understand me.

"I told you, Holmes.'' I said. ''I am not anyone's fiancée and I do not intend to be to nobody. And the woman you're talking about, well, I let her die in this tomb. She no longer exists. The one you have in front of you is Jane Harriet Watson and the rest does not concern you. And stop calling me Doctor, for God's sake! I do not have a degree, and I don't need more attention than my face brings upon me. ''

He smiled at me. Probably the warmest smile he has given me since our first meeting.

"You must at least return to your interlocutor when he pronounces the name you have chosen." He said, calmly. ''It's a lot more natural and it will save you some trouble. Now, Watson, listen to me. Your name does not matter to me. I do not care about the woman you are or used to be. London is huge and you will not be able to find your man alone, anyway. But I need all your attention and all your abilities, whether you have the title or not, to elucidate this Royal Opera House little mystery. Help me and I'll see what I can do to find the one you're looking for. Deal?''

I held his gaze motionless. I could not decipher his expression, as if he was wearing a wax mask. I finally nodded my head for an answer. He gave me a polite, cold smile, as always.

''Good. Now arm yourself with courage.'' He gave me annoyed grin. ''They took all their time to discover the body and I see only one explanation. It is in the basement of the Opera.''

* * *

"Should I really come and held your hand, Watson?"

Holmes' cold voice reverberated on the stone walls and high ceilings of the third basement of the Opera House. The policeman who closed the march, a certain Peterson I guess, sneered at me. I leaned for the umpteenth time on the wall and tried to resume my breath and took out my flask to drink a sip. The alcohol burned my throat and I sighed in relief. The policeman came up to me and gave me a smirk and whispered almost to my ear.

"Would the little lady like me to carry 'er down in me arms? Gimme the rest o' that flask, Miss, an' I'll carry yer all the way up to bed. I wouldn't go following Mister 'Olmes if I was you. 'E likes that sort o' thing. 'E gets all excited. One o' these days it'll be 'im as puts the body there.''

I disengaged myself from the foul breath of the policeman, put away the flask and forced myself to continue, my head held high. I heard him utter a last sneer and he passed me to join the rest of the group. The pain irradiated my right leg now and every step forward was a torture. Lestrade and Holmes argued in a low voice, in the lantern's twilight, visibly about me. In three strides, Holmes was in front of me and overhung me with all his height.

"I am already struggling to convince Lestrade of your presence here, Doctor, and you do not help your case.'' He murmured. I could almost see a glipse of anger in his eyes. ''For what the saying of a stranger matter, I will never leave you underground without you being able to get out. And then it's the last basement. We can not go deeper in this opera, I promise you.''

He stretched out his arm to me, rolling his eyes and making a disgust grin when I took him. I saw Lestrade, farther in a halo of light from the lanterns, making us imploring gestures. We were almost there.

In the middle of the dark crypt, tied to a series of ropes and cogs, there was a series of sets, each one more grandiose than the others. Their gilding sparkled in the light of the lanterns, and for a moment I could hardly believe that a murder could take place in such a magical place.

Holmes immediately disengaged from my grasp and pointed his long thin finger at the straw-haired man who raised his lantern towards us in front of the setting of a golden throne room.

" _Le roi de Lahore_ " A French opera played only once at the Royal Opera House, two years ago. Too romantic for the English public, even for a French opera. This scenery has not gone back to the surface since, and I doubt that it will go back before a long time, now. Oh. And here is Inspector Gregson, Lestrade's rival. The finest minds of Scotland Yard clash here. A real tragedy, you'll see. I leave you in good hands.

He winked at me and disappeared behind another scenery, in the shadows, to my own dismay. When I wanted to follow him, Gregson was already coming in my direction and addressed Lestrade with a condescending look.

"Lestrade, I'm asking you to bring us a decent doctor and you bring us this Baker Street freak and a woman." Gregson almost panted. ''A woman, Lestrade. You are really unable to do the right thing properly, do you? But what is she doing here? Where's that damn doctor?'' He turned to me, with a polite but condescending look. ''Miss, I beg you, it is not the place of a respectable lady. Sergeant Peterson can bring you back-''

But I was no longer listening to this Gregson. I had seen him there, sitting on the great throne of the scenery, like a dismembered puppet. An old paunchy man who looked at us with a hatred and nameless terror mask that would remain forever engraved in my memory. But this time, his agony had been much shorter. Another operatus modi. His throat had been cut off. His blood had spread all over this papier-mâché throne and formed a great dark spread all around him. Like the cloak of a fallen king, I thought. I walked around Inspector Gregson and knelt beside the body and opened his mouth, under the horrified glares of the inspectors who were already threatening to escort me out. No, the tongue was not black. It had nothing to do with Beckett's body. Whoever had done that didn't wanted to hide this man's death like Beckett's one; No, it was staged. The man, by his clothes, was wealthy; His gold watch was hanging beside him. I watched it swing slowly in the void, moved by an invisible hand. I look back to see Gregson and Lestrade arguing and not paying the slightlest attention to me. An object that was worth a small fortune. A gentleman, really. The body, according to its decomposition, had been there since the day before. Less than twenty-four hours, according on blood coagulation and stiffness of the body. The carotid artery, the jugular, and the trachea had been cut from right to left in one stroke, though somewhat erratic, probably because the man was struggling in the grip of his murderer. Something very sharp, like a razor or a scalpel. A professional and a left-handed. The only resemblances I saw with Beckett's body were the friction of a rope on the intact part of the neck.

I shuddered and turned back to Inspector Lestrade, who was watching me with an overwhelmed look and Inspector Gregson already laughing. Lestrade took a step towards me and made an effort to smile at me with compassion."So, Miss Watson'' Lestrade said. ''What is your diagnosis?"

I hesitated for a moment and Gregson's smile widened, showing his spoiled teeth; I ignored him.

''The carotid and the jugular are severed and the wound is deeper from the right.'' I replied. ''I presume, therefore, that an attempt was made to restrain this man by stifling him, that the victim struggled, and that the murderer was on his back when he carried the fatal blow. A priori, I do not see traces of poisoning but, it would be necessary to make an autopsy and-''

I frowned and turned to Lestrade.

''I confess that I find it strange ... two corpses and two methods ... I ... I'm not sure it is the same murderer and-''

Gregson laughed and slapped Lestrade's shoulder with a wicked smile.

'' Two dead and two methods '' He mimicked my voice, with a high discordant tone. ''A lovely little talk, Miss, really. Entertaining. Is it Holmes who asked you to learn this by heart? That would be his style. This is Mister Poles. Director of the Royal Opera House for over thirty years. I say director but ... It is not since yesterday night just when he officially ceded his rights for a ridiculous amount. So this man came here to kill himself by cutting his throat. Beckett hanged himself. Lestrade got a little excited, I think, with this theory of ... how did you call it, Gregory? Oh yes ... mass murders. Lestrade. Again, where is this doctor? Now, Miss, if you could back offand let my men work-''

"Your cleverness will never stop to impress me, Gregson.''

The voice of Holmes thundered and he reappeared just like that, through the pillars of the scenery, his hands behind his back, with a smile split from ear to ear.

"Gentlemen, Doctor Watson, if you could follow me, please." Sergeant Peterson, your lantern, I beg of you. Make sure to illuminate the floor, especially. And pay attention to these spots on the floor. You see?

I rolled my eyes and lowered my head, mortified with shame. I saw the policemen staring at me, under the name '' doctor''. What I hbelieved to be the end of the sectioned artery spread formed a track that disappeared between two pillars of the scenery and disappeared in the shadows made by the other gargantuan sets.

We followed Holmes and walked round the immense set, lit up by the policeman's lantern. The dark drops, from here and there, followed a distinct course towards the rear of the throne. Then Holmes took the lantern from policeman's hand and raise it to the wall in front of us. I had to raise my head to read. Two large misshapen letters, now brown and dark, had been written on the wood with the fresh blood of the victim, it seemed.

 **O.G.**

I closed my eyes for a moment. The O was incomplete but we could guess it. A hand imprint, spread out on the wall, completed the picture.

I opened my eyes and felt Holmes's gaze on my neck; I glared at him as he addressed the inspectors.

"Doctor Watson, how long does it take for a man like Poles to die of such an injury?" He asked.

I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment. He called me '' Doctor '' again. I could see exactly where he was going, and Lestrade, too, as I could figure. He was already looking at his rival with a triumphant air. A man had been bled out on a papier-mâché throne in the depths of the London Opera, these two men were throwing insults at each others and the man with whom I lived resembled a child about to unpack a Christmas gift. Another shiver ran through my spine. But before Peterson sneered again, I looked up and answered firmly.

"Two to five minutes.'' I said. ''With a wound like that, he could not have circled the set to write these letters himself. He lost consciousness less than a minute later, due to the loss of blood pressure. With the heap of blood there, that's where the wound was inflicted, not here. The blood coagulated just a little because the person who wrote this had difficulty to make this inscription. But it is definitely not the victim who made it. At the very least, someone else decided to observe the scene, to draw these letters and not to notify the competent authorities. These gentlemen will be able to tell you themselves, Holmes.

I put all possible emphasis I could on '' competent '' and I saw Holmes sketch a smile. Then he walked up and down before the inscription and finally pointed it out with his bony hand.

"So we are talking about a man who would have witnessed the death of Mr. Poles, who would have taken the blood of the victim to write these very two letters and disappeared without warning anyone." He grinned. ''I would say that in view of the spacing between the drops of blood and the height at which these letters were inscribed and of the imprint on the wall ... we are looking for a man fairly lean, about 6 feet and 2 inches and left-handed . See how the first letter is scrambled. A left-handed man.

Peterson chuckled.

"Look like's 'Olmes describe 'imself!''

There was a uneasy silence for a moment. Holmes had pointed these letters with his left hand. And he was about at least six feet himself. I thought back to this Peterson had said and massaged my aching forehead. I did not know my roommate at all. But I bearly imagined him killing an opera director. Perhaps this Gaylord Spriggs from the Daily Telegraph, whom he seemed to hate the prose from with all his heart, but not an opera director. Lestrade, to my great gratitude, broke the uneasiness and set his dark little eyes on him. ''Al' right, Holmes, We have a witness to find. Now, what do we do?''

Holmes made a disdainful look and rolled his eyes, for the umpteenth time.

''You interrogate the Opera staff, of course. The killer is among them. ''

I was going to join the officers to the surface – finally! - when Holmes held me by the sleeve.

"Can I borrow your handkerchief, Watson, since you have not took that toast with you?''

I was about to protest when he quickly took my hand and placed a small cold object on it.

''Too bad, then. Hide this with Mr. Poles' watch that you hid in this precious handkerchief of yours and do not throw up on it, will you? They will believe you more than I, in the presence of such belonging. I do not want Lestrade and Gregson to sabotage our little investigation.

And he walked towards the surface with his hands in his back. I kept my fist clenched, the sweat on my forehead, in fear someone else had saw what I did until we arrived in the lobby of the Opera. When I opened the palm of my hand, a small golden shimmer shone beneath the luxurious chandeliers.

An engagement golden ring.

 _A.N: *Since, in the plot, I had encountered many anachronisms - especially from 1906! - I decided all together - to bring Gaylord Spriggss from the Phantom of Manhattan as a cultural chroniqueur. I bet he could be still in London in 1881 and move to New York afterwards... you never know._

 _I seek a beta-reader for that story by the way! To improve the english and get rid of these little incoherences and plot holes, along the way!_


End file.
